The grand mist surfaced.
Alone is enough in the world of lack;
revamped, reverberated,
mist with the human spleen, with the sunken chest and the tender chin,
with the bulky arms.
No produced action, no mobilisation,
no victory —
just the body
of the sordid vapour.
It’s my only wish, the one escape.
I see through the uprise wind,
borderline static,
moving heavily,
the burden of the grand mist.
Mother, where have I been?
Why was I there in the first place?
Mother, is this my sin —
to witness death in each life’s corner?
Where the grand mist arises
from its sleep,
forgive me; I haven’t found myself
on the deserted street.
Through the eyes, scavenger,
simply dormant
for another minute.
